


The Gap Where We Meet

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, M/M, Monster Husbands, PWP, Voyeurism, utter self-indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 02:56:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18240971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: "Elias knows after this he probably won’t hear from Peter at all for months, and it will take some time after that before Peter will let himself be heard again. He’ll miss the letters and the sound of Peter’s voice, the utterly filthy way he talks Elias off over the phone. He’ll miss Peter, but then that’s rather the point, isn’t it?"*Elias has never been in a room with Peter. So far that hasn't hindered their sex life.





	The Gap Where We Meet

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t find the exact post, but I saw some fun speculation recently that Jonny will never give us Elias and Peter in the same room, in order to stymie the monster fuckers. Well, challenge accepted. 
> 
> (Seriously guys, there's no plot here. Elias is a posh git and then they have sex. That's the fic.)
> 
> Title paraphrased from “Where I End And You Begin” by Radiohead. Working title: Peter and Elias Make a Porno.

 

His reflection in the mirror looks him up and down with a critical eye, evaluating the fall of his trouser legs, the exact length of his shirt cuffs. Elias frowns back at it, and adjusts his tie slightly. The knot is a simple four-in-hand, casual and asymmetric, and looking at it now he’s starting to question whether it’s the right one for the occasion. He puts both hands to it, as if to tug it open and begin again, then shakes his head. No. He’s not going to second guess himself now. Besides, it isn’t as if anyone else is going to see it.

He adjusts the tie again, and brushes some imagined wrinkles out of his shirt. Takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He isn’t nervous. Anticipation can cause many of the same symptoms, butterflies in the stomach and the questioning of decisions long since made. And his anticipation is high right now, because Peter is coming to dinner, which is a rarity. He slips on the suit jacket - the fit is perfect - and gives himself a final appraising glance in the mirror before heading downstairs.

The food arrives just before seven o’clock, as requested. Le Gavroche doesn’t deliver, of course, but exceptions can always be made, and in Elias’ case, they almost always are. He lifts the metal cloche from one of the plates, his mouth watering at the aromas that waft out. _Truite au bleu_ with _beurre noisette_ , tender roasted asparagus and leeks, watercress salad. He replaces the cloche and sets one of the servings on the dining room table. Pops open the seal on the beer bottle he’s already retrieved from the fridge, pouring maybe a third of it into the glass, where it froths and bubbles. There’s a bottle of Sancerre blanc breathing in his office, but Peter’s never appreciated wine, and the gose’s salt and sour nose will complement the fish.

He places the glass alongside the covered plate, and checks that the lights and music are at a pleasing level. Lately he’s been enjoying minimalist compositions, their spare elegance, the stark fluency of the gaps between notes. Tonight’s selection is from Arvo Pärt, simple arrangements for violin, cello, and piano. 

Satisfied that everything is as he wants it, Elias collects his own portion of food and goes to his office. Pours a glass of the Sancerre and takes a mouthful, savoring the notes of grass and lime peel, the flinty mineral undertone. He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking slightly, and closes his eyes. 

He is aware of the entire house, can see and feel every corner of it in his mind. This house is as familiar to him as his own body, and his perception spreads through it with almost no effort, intimate and expectant. He can hear the ticking of the clock in the hallway, notices with a modicum of annoyance that it’s already after seven. Typical Peter, always likes to keep him waiting. 

At four minutes past the hour, a blank spot arrives in Elias’ mental landscape, a soundless patch of static, and he smiles. Powers on the flat screen television on the opposite wall, and switches the camera feed to the dining room. And there’s Peter, in glorious high definition, already lifting the cover off his meal to smell it. He’s made an effort: he’s wearing a crisp, Spanish blue shirt and charcoal trousers, his hair and beard looking freshly trimmed. Elias is flattered.

Peter takes a seat at the table, picks up his beer glass and tips it to the camera in a toast. Elias raises his own glass, and they drink. 

“Nice choice,” Peter says as he sets the glass down. The microphone renders his voice distant and tinny, and as always Elias feels the gap between them, the _absence_ that stands in for Peter in his consciousness. It niggles, like a missing tooth, but it’s a well known feeling, something he’s become accustomed to through long experience.

The meal is delicious. Elias watches the screen as he eats, satisfied that Peter is enjoying it as well. Peter makes occasional remarks to the camera throughout, complimenting the food, mentioning, off-handed, occurrences from his recent travels, anything he thinks might interest Elias. Elias can’t answer, of course, the connection is one way. But that is part of their arrangement as much as is the distance between them; Elias will observe, but not _be_ observed. It suits Peter too, he can only assume. Holding a conversation alone in an empty room seems apt.

Peter drains his beer glass and waggles the empty bottle at the camera.

“Stay where you are, I can help myself,” he says, as if Elias would otherwise be at his elbow in an instant. Elias snorts. Peter’s idea of a joke. He switches the feed to the kitchen as Peter heads that way, watches him open the fridge and lean forward to reach inside, the blue shirt stretching across his shoulders in a way that draws Elias’ eye. Returns his attention to the dining room as Peter reseats himself, popping open the beer bottle and pouring it with too much head. Elias smiles; he’s known Peter far too long to find his carelessness anything other than endearing. 

Once they’ve finished eating, Peter sits back in his chair, sipping leisurely on the remainder of his beer. He’s rolled his shirt sleeves up to the elbows by now, and undone a couple of buttons so it hangs open at the base of his throat. Elias lets his gaze linger on the hard muscle of Peter’s forearms, the lines of tendons and veins standing out against his pale skin. Watches Peter take a drink and tip his head back to swallow, Adam’s apple jumping in his throat. He is always a pleasure to watch, acutely physical despite the liminal demands of his god, utterly at ease in his own skin. It’s one aspect of him that is easy to know, even though the knowing is tauntingly incomplete.

They have never codified this arrangement that they have. It is entirely unspoken, worked out through trial and error, boundaries tested and ground given on both sides. Elias hadn’t understood, at the beginning. Had been surprised to receive a communication from a member of the Lukas family other than Nathaniel, and found it rather quaint that it was in the form of a handwritten letter.

 _Dear Elias,_ it had begun. _I hope you don’t mind me calling you Elias, but I prefer to be on first name terms. Nathaniel has asked me to be the intermediary between the Institute and the Lukas family. Envoy, he calls it, and he doesn’t find it very funny when I refer to myself as the errand boy. You may have noticed my brother lacks a sense of humor. In any case, we’re going to be working together, so I wanted to introduce myself. I’m sure we will get to know each other very well._

Peter had signed the letter off with warm regards, and Elias had immediately found him irritating and presumptuous. He hadn’t seen any reason he should interact with any other member of the Lukas family than its head, had wondered if it was a slight by Nathaniel, an indication that Elias was beneath his attention.

Elias had replied to that first letter with a suggestion that they should meet. If he was to be working with this man, he wanted to _know_ him, and he could do so most easily face to face. Peter had rebuffed the suggestion, _I’m better on paper than in person,_ and every other invitation to meet that Elias proffered, until it became too apparent to deny: Peter Lukas would not meet him.

It had been frustrating, of course. The alliance with the Lukases was useful, but he had still hoped to have the upper hand, and the Beholding would always gain more than the Lonely from a face to face encounter. He had to respect Peter’s prudence, however, in avoiding that. The more he corresponded with Peter, in fact, the more compelling he found the man. His manner came across as plain and jovial, but just below its surface lurked a shrewd and intriguing mind, sharp enough to cut, quick enough to keep Elias on his toes. The sort of mind that he found terribly attractive, wanted to touch and explore, and the fact that he could not do so beyond what Peter gave him in his letters was tantalizing.

At what point the tone of Peter’s letters had shifted from teasing to outright flirtatious is hard to pin down, even if Elias reads through them all in chronological order. However he had found it harder and harder to maintain his own detached professionalism in the face of Peter’s declarations that _I look forward to your letters more than I look forward to being at sea,_ how easily he slipped from serious to playfully salacious.

 _The way your lines slant says you’re ambitious,_ he had written once, apropos of nothing. _And the full lower loops speaks of deep seated eroticism. Very interesting handwriting, Elias._

It was not long after that particular letter that Elias had made his next proposal. He had decided that he wanted more than ink on paper, and he didn’t believe it too much of a gamble to think Peter would be willing to give it to him.

 _I understand your reluctance for a face to face meeting,_ he’d written in a postscript to one of his letters. _But written correspondence lacks some immediacy. How about the phone?_

Peter’s reply had come back so rapidly that he might have been waiting for the invitation:

_I think I could stretch to that. I would very much like to hear your voice._

Elias recalls how his face had gone hot reading those words, a flutter of excitement low in his belly. Very few people were capable of surprising him even all those years ago, but Peter was always the exception.

He had waited until he was home that night to call the number Peter had provided him, his hands almost trembling as he dialed and put the phone on speaker, a tape recorder sitting on the desk to capture the conversation. 

“Hello, Elias,” Peter’s voice had come across the line when he answered, warm and teasing, and Elias had felt the rush of _knowing_ surge through him, had understood that Peter was giving something up for this, some piece of his distance dropping away to satisfy the Beholding’s need. A compromise.

“Peter,” he had answered, feeling breathless, thrilled. “It’s good to finally speak with you.”

“I was right,” Peter had said, low and honeyed. “I do like hearing your voice.”  

That first phone conversation had culminated in Elias’ hand down his trousers and Peter in his ear, gasping Elias’ name and telling him in explicit terms precisely what he would do if he had Elias on his knees. The memory of that conversation is enough to make Elias feel heated, even all these years later, and he still listens to that tape once in a while. He has a vast collection of tapes and letters, thousands of them, postcards from ports around the world and scribbled napkins mysteriously found in his coat pockets, every conversation he and Peter have ever had. It is everything he _knows_ of Peter, every turn of phrase and wicked thought, every soft laugh and hinted conspiracy. It _is_ Peter, in a way, even more so than the secondhand sight of him on a video camera.

He wonders if Peter has ever kept any of his letters, or if he tosses them aside as soon as he’s read them, equally compelled to discard all connection as Elias is to hoard it. He would never ask, though, because what Peter gets from their arrangement is his to know.

Two decades, and they have never been in a room together. It is not a conventional relationship, by any means, and they are both fully aware that their first loyalty is to their respective patrons. If the alliance between the Beholding and Lonely ceases to be expedient at any point, well...that would change things. But Elias respects Peter, and is fascinated by him. Peter challenges him. Peter makes him laugh.

And, Peter is the most intensely attractive person Elias has ever known. The fact that he can never truly _know_ Peter the way he wants to only makes him more enticing. An enthrallment born of frustrated desire. Elias shifts a little in his seat; the anticipation of what’s to come is already starting to affect him.

Down in the dining room, Peter drains the end of his glass and stands up, stretching. His shirt strains across his chest with the movement, the buttons holding up valiantly, his shoulders rolling as he works his neck from side to side to loosen it. He looks up at the camera and winks.

“See you up there,” he says, and walks out of frame. Elias drinks some wine, feeling heady with anticipation.

There are no cameras in the hallways, but Elias can feel Peter moving through the house, the blank, staticky gap of his presence passing across Elias’ awareness. He waits until Peter’s reached his destination before he takes his wine glass and makes his own way to the master bedroom.

The surveillance setup here is more elaborate, with three large screens, each streaming from a different camera in the guest bedroom. The intercom between the rooms is two way: Elias wants to be able to talk to Peter through this. There are also cameras in this room, recording Elias, but that footage is for him to review later, to see himself in the act and re-experience it at a distance. The immediacy is in watching Peter, who is visible in the wide shot angle from the far corner ceiling, examining the wooden sideboard where Elias has arrayed a selection of toys and lubricants for his approval. There is an exact replica of the set-up in the master bedroom, and Elias intends to mimic Peter’s choices tonight. To feel exactly what Peter feels. To _know_ his experience.

Peter’s hand passes over silicone and metal and even wood, lingers on a glass dildo wrapped in a heating pad. The capacity of glass to change temperature is something Elias has always found enjoyable. Peter sniffs at a few different lubricant containers, wrinkling his nose at the variety of scents.

“Very indulgent, Elias,” he says, sounding distantly amused.

“I _am_ hoping you’ll indulge me,” Elias replies, and Peter laughs. He picks up the largest item on the table, a silicone monstrosity covered in ridges and knots, and raises a skeptical eyebrow to the camera.

“If you’re feeling brave,” Elias tells him. He put it there mostly for Peter’s amusement, although if Peter _were_ feeling brave… He wriggles his hips minutely at the thought.

“Maybe not, at my age,” Peter says, putting it down again.

“My loss, then,” Elias purrs, because he knows Peter likes to be admired, despite his aversion to being in company. Peter preens a little, then toes his shoes off and sits down on the bed to remove his socks. Elias shrugs his jacket off onto a chair and sits down himself, mirroring Peter’s actions. Tugs off his tie and unbuttons his shirt as Peter does, and leaves it hanging open as Peter stretches out on the bed, putting himself in view of the other two cameras: one directly overhead, the other built into the tall wooden footboard of the bed, offering a low angle view of Peter’s body. 

“Hmm,” Peter hums to himself, one hand thoughtlessly caressing the pale skin of his belly. “What are you doing right now, Elias?”

“Whatever you are,” Elias tells him. It’s not strictly true, he’s propped himself up on a mound of pillows rather than lying flat, so he has a better view, but he is running fingers lightly over his own stomach, imagining Peter’s cold skin beneath his cold hands.

“Oh,” says Peter, cheerfully. “We’re playing that game, are we? Lovely.”

His fingers slide up from his belly to his chest, brushing delicately across his right nipple, then rubbing his thumb over it in small, teasing circles. Elias’ mouth goes dry. Peter, he knows, does not have sensitive nipples. But Elias does, so this is for him. Peter’s way of establishing that, although he is letting Elias watch him, he is not giving up control of the situation. That’s fine with Elias: he can think of worse ways to prove a point.

“You visit so rarely,” Elias says, trying and failing to sound unruffled as he moves eager fingers up to his own chest. “I didn’t want to waste the occasion.”

“I’m honored,” Peter smirks, licking his finger and flicking it across his nipple, rolling it to a peak between thumb and forefinger.

“You - ah - you should be,” Elias gasps as he tugs on his own nipple with wet fingers, feeling the nerve endings light up with pleasure. He pinches and rolls it hard, and watches on screen as Peter’s other hand moves down to cup the growing bulge in his trousers. Elias simultaneously sees the languid motion of Peter’s body from above, and from the low angle, the urgency with which he slides his hand over his erection, his hips pushing up into it, a low, throaty groan reaching Elias’ ears through the speaker.

“I hope you’re enjoying the view,” Peter says, his voice rough. Elias palms his own erection through the fabric, biting his lower lip.

“As much as you enjoy showing off,” he says, and Peter laughs, rolling his hips up again. He really is a tremendous exhibitionist, for someone so entrenched in isolation. But then, Elias supposes, isn’t there something terribly lonely about putting yourself on display in front of the cold eye of the camera? Almost more isolating than being entirely alone.

“Why don’t you show me some more?” Elias suggests, and Peter sits up to shrug off his shirt, leering at the furthest camera.

“So keen!” he teases. “Is it me or you that you’re so desperate to get naked?” 

“I can enjoy both at once,” Elias says, sliding his own shirt off and laying back on the pillows again. The fine material is silky against his skin, and he burrows languorously against it. Undoes his belt and wriggles out of his trousers as Peter does the same, his mouth watering at the sight of Peter’s cock tenting out his briefs, a damp spot already forming on the fabric. Elias’ own boxers are looser fitting, and he grips his cock through the soft cotton, massaging it pleasurably, watching as Peter gets up and walks over to the sideboard. As he examines what’s on offer, Elias does the same, getting an excellent view of Peter’s broad, muscled back, the curve of his arse.  

“Hmm,” says Peter thoughtfully. “So many options. Honestly, I feel spoiled for choice.”

“I could choose for you, if you like,” Elias tells him, licking his dry lips. His cock is throbbing with arousal now, the head rubbing wetly against his underwear, and he forces his hand away from it. He doesn’t want to come so soon. Peter glances over his shoulder at the camera, eyebrow cocked playfully.

“How about I choose for _you?_ ” he says. “Assuming you’re following your copycat act through all the way, of course.”

“Of course,” Elias tells him throatily, swallows hard. Peter’s hand lingers over the knobbled monstrosity for an instant, then moves past the heated glass dildo to the other end of the table, where its twin sits wrapped in a cooling pack.

“This, I think,” he says. “Cold enough so you can feel like I’m fucking you with my own cock.”

“Cold enough that you can feel like you’re being fucked by nothing at all,” Elias retorts, and Peter inclines his head with a wry smile.

“Perfect, then.”

Elias gets to his feet and moves to the duplicate set-up in his own room. Unwraps the toy from its cold pack and runs his fingers over its smooth, chilly surface. A shiver runs through him. This isn’t an experience he’s unfamiliar with, but to know that Peter will be experiencing the same thing, in his own cold-blooded way, is intoxicating.

Cold-blooded but not bloodless, as Peter proves by dropping his underwear to the floor, his cock hard and flushed dark red. Elias quickly slips off his own boxers, the cool air tingling against the leaking head of his cock. Peter is looking straight up at the corner camera, holding the glass toy in one hand. Slowly and deliberately runs it from the hollow of his throat across his chest, over one nipple, then down his belly to his groin, as Elias does the same, sliding the cold glass against the hot skin of his cock, unable to stop a moan falling from his lips at the sensation. His legs feel weak.

“I bet you look wonderful just now,” Peter tells him, his voice husky. “Wish I could see you like this.”

“No you don’t,” Elias huffs a slightly shaky laugh. “Not in person, at least. I can send you the recording later, though.”

“Hmm, I might like that. Something to keep me warm on the lonely nights at sea.”

“Speaking of warm, we should get on while these are still cold.”

“Oh, the impatience!” Peter laughs. “I’ve never known anyone as keen to be fucked - are you sure your Eye only feeds on knowledge?”

“Get on the bed, Peter,” Elias orders, and Peter laughs again.

“Yes, Elias,” he says, and clambers back onto the bed, grabbing a bottle of lubricant as he goes.

Peter makes himself comfortable with a couple of pillows, bending his knees with his feet flat on the mattress. Elias shuffles back onto his own pile of pillows, watching from above as Peter spreads his thighs unselfconsciously, uncapping the lubricant and pouring it carelessly over his fingers, doubtless all over the sheets as well. Watches from a low angle as Peter’s dripping hand drifts over his stiff cock, squeezes his balls gently and then runs down into the cleft of his arse. Simultaneously watches Peter’s fingers breaching his arsehole, and the look on Peter’s face as they do, his lower lip caught between his teeth in concentration.

Elias’ hands are trembling as he follows suit, coating his fingers in lubricant - though more carefully than Peter - and slipping them between his buttocks to probe at his own arsehole. Two fingers slide in easily, only a hint of discomfort as he stretches himself, twisting his wrist to press in deeper. The sensation goes directly to his cock, the heat and pressure coiling through his groin and belly, and he squirms against his fingers, working them deeper, his cock twitching as they brush his prostate. Peter is fucking himself just as eagerly with his own fingers, his hips bucking minutely and his pale skin flushing pink across the chest and throat.

“Tell me, Peter,” Elias gasps, because he needs to know. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Good,” Peter pants, “But not enough - ”

Elias watches Peter’s fingers slide out of him, moving up to fondle his balls, rolling them in his palm. Reluctantly he lets his own fingers slip out, lets them play around the tender, stretched opening of his arsehole, sensation tingling through him. He watches as Peter picks up the glass dildo, slathers it with lubricant, his hand lingering on its curves lovingly.

“Please, Peter,” Elias moans, fisting his own cock loosely, his body trembling with need. “I want to see you.” It costs him little to admit it, maybe just a modicum of pride, but he knows it excites Peter to feel he’s won some concession. To know how much Elias desires him, while Peter keeps him at this distance. Peter licks his lips, spreads his thighs even further apart.

“You only ever need to ask, you know that,” he says, his voice low, somewhere between amusement and desperate arousal. Elias quickly slicks up his own toy, still cold to the touch, and as Peter positions the head against his slippery arsehole, Elias does the same, pushes it in at the exact moment Peter does.

Elias gasps at the first press inside, the blunt head so much larger than fingers, and sees Peter’s brow furrowed faintly with discomfort, his mouth open and panting. The chill dulls the sting of penetration, and Elias watches in enthralled arousal as Peter starts to work the dildo further inside himself, little by little. Does the same with his own, his body adjusting to the stretch and hard pressure inside him, until it starts to feel good and then better.

Peter’s hips are rocking minutely into the motion, his pupils blown wide in the overhead camera, and Elias watches as the hard length disappears into Peter’s body, feels it filling him simultaneously, deep and overwhelming. The cold is numbing, but not enough that Elias doesn’t feel when the curved head first nudges against his prostate, an electric jolt of arousal. He groans, full throated, and sees Peter smirking at him.

“Enjoying yourself?” Peter asks smugly, though his own voice is raw with arousal.

“Tremendously,” Elias tells him. Peter laughs.

“Good,” he says, “Because you know this takes a lot out of me, at my age.”

Elias snorts at Peter’s reference to his age, because neither of them have aged the way they should over the years. Fear, it seems, keeps you young. But he does know it takes something from Peter, to be seen like this, scrutinized, even from a distance. There’s a reason they do this so rarely.

Elias knows after this he probably won’t hear from Peter at all for months, and it will take some time after that before Peter will let himself be heard again. He’ll miss the letters and the sound of Peter’s voice, the utterly filthy way he talks Elias off over the phone. He’ll miss Peter, but then that’s rather the point, isn’t it? Still the trade off for this one night of _seeing_ Peter, of _experiencing,_ is very worth it to Elias.

Even more worth it when he gets to see _this,_ Peter sliding the slick length of the dildo almost entirely out of his body, and then pushing it all the way back in. Elias feels the loss acutely as he does the same, the pleasurable fullness as it slides back inside him. Hears Peter’s throaty moan as he begins to fuck himself in earnest. Elias matches his pace, slow and deliberate, his toes curling into the mattress as arousal rolls through him in waves. His cock, which had flagged a little at the earlier discomfort, is now stiff and aching, leaking pre-ejaculate steadily.

He can see Peter’s head tossed to one side, worrying his lip between his teeth, his face flushed faintly. His chest rising and falling as his breath comes fast, little whining exhalations that go straight to Elias’ cock. The taut muscles of his legs as his hips push up off the mattress, as he fucks himself deep and slow, his cock curving over his belly, looking painfully hard. It is a beautiful sight, and Elias knows _exactly_ how he feels right now, so heady with the awareness that he almost feels faint.

“God, Peter,” he gasps. Peter gives a breathy laugh.

“Not quite,” he says, low and rough, “But I appreciate the compliment.”

“Touch yourself,” Elias tells him, “I want to watch you come.”

“Bored of me already?” Peter asks, but his free hand moves up to his cock, closing tightly around it and stroking it in time with the dildo fucking his arse. Elias laughs and grabs his own cock, almost dizzy with relief at finally being able to touch it.

“Not even close,” he says, “This is just the first round. We have the whole night ahead.”

“Oh, you beauty,” Peter says, sounding equal parts amused and overwhelmed. Just how Elias likes him.

Peter’s breath is gone ragged, fucking himself shallowly as he fists his cock, his entire body trembling and wanton, yearning frantically towards release. Elias watches, and feels, knowledge thrilling through him as pleasure wracks his body, his cock aching in his hand. He is moaning and whimpering, and he sees Peter’s lips twitch in a tiny smile as the sounds reach his ears, his eyes half lidded and his hips bucking into his hands, one fucking him and one jerking his cock desperately.

“Elias,” he pants,  “Elias, are you watching?”

“Always,” Elias breathes, and Peter starts to come with a low groan, semen pulsing over his belly as his hips jerk and his arse clenches around the hard length filling it, thighs straining against the sensation. But it’s the look on his face that pushes Elias over the edge, an expression of pleasure so intense it’s almost pain, his blue eyes staring wide into the camera, and Elias’ orgasm hits him like a train, knocking him breathless. He shakes and whimpers, his cock spurting in his hand as he bears down hard on the dildo, milking every last shred of sensation, watching Peter fall back boneless against the mattress.

At last Elias lies back, breathing hard, his body buzzing with post-coital gratification. Peter is stretched out on the mattress like a satisfied cat, looking wrung out with pleasure and extremely well fucked.

“Well,” he says, “You certainly know how to show a guy a good time.”

“And you know how to show your good time to anyone who cares to watch,” Elias retorts, and Peter laughs.

“Only to you, Elias, you know that.”

Elias does know that, and the knowing is a pleasant warmth in his belly. This is something Peter gives only to him, a concession to the delicate balance of their relationship. Physical proximity and his image on the screen, recorded indelibly to Elias’ memory. It’s more than he would have given at the start of their association. It’s always more, small and careful annexations of his distance as the years go by. Twenty years ago, Peter wouldn’t let Elias hear his voice. Ten years ago, Elias had only ever seen him in a grainy photograph. Look at them now.

Someday, Elias knows, he will break down the distance between them entirely. Because Peter is an avatar of Isolation who likes to be adored, and because he is arrogant enough to think he is untouchable. Because he is as fascinated by Elias as Elias is by him. Because part of him _wants_ to let Elias close.

Someday, Elias will see Peter in the flesh, and he will know him, utterly. And by then, Peter will rejoice to be known.

Someday isn’t today, though. For now, Elias enjoys this dance of approach-and-retreat. The frisson of _seeing_ from a distance, of _knowing_ in ink and tape and electrical waveforms. Getting to watch Peter fuck himself with eager thoroughness is merely a bonus, though an extremely pleasant one.

He lies there for a while, just watching. Reaching out with his awareness to sense the blank _nothing_ of Peter’s presence. Lets himself feel the ache of it, like running your tongue over a tooth cavity, while simultaneously taking in every part of Peter he’s been allowed. Every inch of his pale skin, traced blue with veins in the tender places. The flex of muscle and tendon in his limbs. The solid strength of his torso, chest down to belly to groin, where his softened cock nestles against his hip.

Elias shifts against the pillows, raises a languid hand to pinch one of his oversensitized nipples, shivering at his own touch. His soft cock twitches faintly with interest.

“So,” he says finally. “About round two…”

Peter chuckles softly.

“Insatiable,” he says, his tone affectionate. “You know even horses get a break for water once in a while?”

“There’s water in the fridge - in that far lower cabinet,” Elias directs. “And beer, of course.”

“Oh, I love you,” Peter tells him with exaggerated enthusiasm as he gets up. Elias smiles. 

“I know,” he says, because he really does.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated. Find me on tumblr [@cuttoothed](http://cuttoothed.tumblr.com).


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